As if in storm lurked calm and peace
by CJK
Summary: Commodore Norrington has survived fighting undead pirates and being used by the woman he loves. One'd think Fate was through with him. But Fate didn't count on Jack Sparrow. Warning, may contain traces of nuts and homosexual themes.
1. Part 1

**Title:** As if in storm lurked calm and peace 1?

**Author:** cjk1701

**Rating:** PG for this part

**Pairing:** Sparrington, eventually

**Disclaimer:** Disney owns the characters and pretty much everything else. More's the pity.

**A/N:** Crossposted all over the place. Many thanks to dien and ptigga for the beta. All the mistakes and Monty Python references are my own. The title's from a very well known Russian poem.

**I. Prologue**

His footsteps echo on the stone steps as he walks down from the fort wall, away from the spectacle of the hanging, from Governor Swann's expression of perpetual bafflement, from Elizabeth's blinding smile and her spoiled, obstinate blindness, from young Turner's reckless stupidity, from the taunts of a pirate who, had the world not been tilted precariously, should have now been a lifeless thing hanging heavily from the tight noose. From his men who won't leave him alone with the silence in his head.

A marine on duty by the bottom of the stairs stands at attention as he passes, eyes firmly locked on the wall opposite. He nods mechanically, his body moving on its own, easily following three decades' worth of social conditioning without the intervention of his mind, which is utterly blank; filled only with the echo of his footsteps on the cobbles and his measured breathing.

In, hold, and out.

In, and the tang of salt and dust, and fruit, and humidity calm him with their familiarity - which presumes he needs calming, he realises distantly, and wonders why that might be the case - and the held breath makes him feel his shirt against his chest.

And out, his shoulders lowering imperceptibly for the length of another step.

And in.

The rhythm fills him, his breaths following his steps, his back as straight as during any inspection, his eyes trained forward. The hot air caresses his face, and the smell of the sea intensifies with a shallow gust of wind. He won't allow himself to look down the hillside, to the harbour, where the furled strength of his ships lies tamed and quiet. It's damnably hot, his shirt will need changing again, he thinks absently. That's the one thing they warned him about when he first made to come to the Caribbean: the wet heat that envelops you like a glove, steals the air from your lungs and finds you even in the bowels of a house.

That, and the pirates.

_I want you to know that I was rooting for you, mate. Know that._

But he will not think about this travesty of compassion.

He walks out through the gates, nodding to the guards posted there. They won't know about the escape yet, though they might have heard the commotion. Their eyes are eager, hungry. He forces himself not to walk faster.

The dust of the footpath stains his shoes red, dulls the shine of the buckles. He curses under his breath for taking this trail to the house; normally he would never walk it in full dress uniform or even anything finer than his plainest coat. Sweat makes his head itch unbearably under the wig, and the cravat feels like a noose around his damp neck. He smiles grimly at the image.

A tree branch hangs over the path, and he pushes it away. It comes back with astonishing force for something so thin, and knocks his hat clean off his head. The blue felt is covered in dust now, ugly streaks looking like dried blood. He bends down to pick it up, lips thinned in annoyance. When he straightens, the branch is in his face, alien leaves and flowers pricking at his skin. It takes a supreme effort of will not to draw his sword and attack the plant; he forces his fists to unclench. His nails have left rough red marks on his palms.

Some fifty-seven steps, made irregular by the jaggedness of the terrain, bring him to the side gate of his garden. Down the hibiscus-lined path and into the back door, where he startles the maid polishing the door handle. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes huge and dark under a worn bonnet.

"Heat some water for a bath" he orders her curtly, his lips barely parting to let the words out, and takes the steps two at a time without waiting for her curtsey and answer. Any other day he would remember her name.

In his bedroom he pulls off his wig with a single savage motion, for once not caring about the carefully pressed curls. His man can take attend to it later, when he is brushing his hat.

His fingers feel numb and slow as he fights the buttons and hooks on his coat. The gold and the blue look muted, then bizarrely crumpled as he throws the garments onto a chair - and misses. Cravat, belt and sword, watch, waistcoat, shoes, stockings, breeches, all the trappings and traps of society and discipline follow suit, landing on and around the bed.

When his hand clenches around a bed post the sweat leaves a dark stain on the wood. He leans forward, a scream building in his belly, rising into his chest, dying unheard before it reaches his lips. For a moment he cannot draw breath and wonders, distantly, ever so distantly, whether this is what Elizabeth felt like in the thrice cursed corset.

The stillborn roar curls inside him, taking the place of air and reason and it is so difficult, so impossible to straighten up, to wipe the sweat from the bedpost with the back of his hand, to tighten his jaw and shoulders.

To meet his own eyes in the mirror and not look away.

His white shirt is stained with sweat and dust, his short hair sticks out in sweaty tufts, and the expression in his eyes almost makes him avert his gaze. But he has done this before, forced himself to look at his reflection when everything inside him was pulled just so tight, so close to breaking.

When the maid - Emma, he thinks, Emma Leech, Mrs. Killigrew's cook's youngest daughter - knocks on his door uncomfortably, a steaming jug in each hand, his face is as perfectly blank as his mind. Only the sound of the waves down in the harbour fills him, leaving no room for anything else.

**II. Monotony, thy name is life**

The court-martial comes about with rather surprising swiftness and an even more surprising outcome. He is slightly taken aback by the fierce loyalty of his men, of those who fought with him to retake the _Dauntless_ in particular. The Governor speaks for him, and in the end the position carries more weight than the man's uncertain, halting words and the uneasy glances. He has always admired and respected Swann as he would a father, but these days he has little patience for him.

At the end of the month he is not only still in command of his ships and his men, but also with an unofficial assurance that his rank is secure and his career not entirely concluded. The same source warns him in carefully cultivated dry tones to become as quietly inconspicuous as the commander of the Jamaican fleet is ever likely to be. Some rather fine port is shared, and eventually the new routine rolls over him, duties that often keep him away from the _Dauntless_ for weeks at a time.

Sometimes he permits himself small sighs at the seemingly endless supply of incompetence his men can provide, or the amount of papers to pass through his hands. He has never been stranded for such long stretches at a time, not since he lost his ship to paperwork. Not since he left England on his first assignment, come to think of that.

He schedules exercises and patrols as often as he can, possibly more often than prudence would require, but the only restful sleep he can claim is to be found on a gently swinging cot, surrounded by the smell of sea and the creaking of the hull.

Even there he dreams of skeletal arms and decaying flesh and his men dying around him, but his ship rocks him back to sleep after he wakes up tangled in white sheets and grey fear.

The wedding is fast approaching, and the Governor is in his element while planning and organising and procuring and resolutely ignoring the rather malicious gossip leaking in from all sides. Elizabeth's eyes are a little more haunted these days, at least on those deliberately few occasions when he makes the effort to meet her gaze. No matter how strong and stubborn the girl is, marrying so far beneath her station, and making such a public scandal out of it, may just be more than she can handle. Her chin is defiantly raised, however, and he cannot help but admire the same spirit that lost him his heart, and nearly his life and his career.

There are days when, surrounded by papers and with ink instead of tar on his fingers, the lump wedged between his stomach and his chest seems to expand and clench at him from within. His cook must have noticed him sending most of the meats and pastries back untouched, for the dishes he sees on his dinner table are now decidedly lighter, and strange tinctures have appeared in the back of his drinks cabinet. He remembers to be courteous to his servants, even when what he wants most is to be left in peace.

He goes through the rosters again, looking for a way to be off-shore on the day of the wedding. His absence and his presence alike will create yet more rumours. Swann hopes he will attend, Elizabeth expects him to. Sometimes he wonders if the muted stirrings he feels are infatuation or aggravation. He does not think it should matter one way or the other.

**III. Intermission**

The night of the wedding day finds him in bed, having survived the crowd and the gossip and Elizabeth's radiant smile.

In the end he settled for a compromise, and merely attended the ceremony, leaving before the reception with the all too true excuse of work and yet more work. Young Turner looked ridiculously wide-eyed, he thinks, but then the expression seems to be welded to the boy's face. Elizabeth had smiled prettily when he'd touched cold lips almost to her hand and made the remarks one is expected to offer to a happy bride. On the whole, he thinks, it had not hurt as much as he had anticipated, and the dreaded finality of the words and the rings seems to have sealed something in him.

Now, lying under a thin sheet and listening to a pair of birds arguing in the trees outside, trying to ignore the cramps pulling at his stomach and the pounding in his head, he wonders what the day might have been like had he been the one to stand at Elizabeth's side. The images are indistinct and vague, nowhere as clear as on that day of the ridiculous ceremony - as if becoming a commodore meant a true elevation in rank, rather than just the loss of his ship - when he had still hoped, had still dreamed.

The lateness of the hour overcomes even his feverish, disjointed thoughts, and he dozes briefly.

Only to start awake as a length of cold steel presses against his throat.

**IV. Moonlight stroll and bed sheets**

Many years ago, an old officer with a predilection for too much drink at inopportune moments had told him an inconsequential little tale about being captured by bandits and the well-used cliché of feeling the villain's blade at one's throat when swallowing.

The memory is vivid in his mind now, as he swallows compulsively at the sudden dry lump in his throat. And, indeed, the burning cold steel is tight against his skin.

The pale moonlight is streaming into the room even through the drawn curtains, and the silhouette at the foot of his bed is outlined by a blue sheen. A mass of unidentifiable clothing, a gleaming sword, and - he must admit a certain lack of surprise - a wild mane of braids and trinkets that click and jingle faintly even in the still room.

"Sparrow" he spits out and reaches for the pistol under the other pillow. "What do you want from me this time, you contemptible creature"

"At this very moment, my dearest Commodore Norrington" the other man slurs, then sways, sword nevertheless pointed at James' throat"I want you to pull out that doubtlessly magnificent pistol - slowly, mind- and throw it to the foot of your just as magnificent bed." He motions vaguely with his left hand, and his cuff flaps like the wing of a bat. "And it's Captain Sparrow, if you don't mind."

He makes no move to reach for the pistol. "I do mind, actually. I mind a great deal." Arguing with a man holding sharp steel to your throat is entirely beyond arrogance or even the realm of reason, but the fury filling him makes him reckless. "I mind you breaking into my house in the dark of the night, I mind you threatening me, I mind your preposterous demand that I should relinquish my weapon, I mind your vile presence in my life"

He does not realise he is shouting until the last. It matters disturbingly little, his servants have the evening off and he is alone in the house. Save the shadow a sword's length from him.

Said shadow sways forward and the sword becomes an insistent pressure. "It is very, very bad luck, mate, to shout at the man threatening you with a sharp blade. Now, that pistol of yours"

Almost against his own volition his hand moves under the pillow and pulls out the weapon. A flick of his wrist and the useless thing lands on the sheet next to his foot. The movement brings him into yet closer contact with the sword, and he feels it pricking his skin. Or perhaps Sparrow just wants to ensure his compliance.

"Satisfied" he growls, falling back against the pillow and carefully suppressing the tremors running through his body.

"Oh, no, no, not at all" Sparrow replies expansively, and he can almost see the gold teeth reflect the moonlight. "On your feet, Commodore."

He clutches the sheet to his chest, his heart beating wildly. "What do you want"

"Stand. Up" and the voice is as flat as he's only heard it once before, when Sparrow was holding the chain around Elizabeth's throat.

He hesitates, and feels an incongruous blush tingle his ears. "It might have escaped your notice, but I am not dressed."

There is another jingle as the pirate huffs softly. "I doubt there is anything I haven't seen before, mate, and if there is, His Majesty's Navy's wasted on you." He makes a sharp motion with the sword, and rolls back half a step, giving James just enough room to sit up.

There is not much manoeuvring room for him now, and no former or current midshipman should be really burdened by anything approaching bodily modesty. He sits up; eyes trained on the sword, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Sparrow motions impatiently with the blade, and he hastens to stand up, looking down defiantly at his subjugator. Fully aware of how thoroughly ridiculous he looks, naked and dishevelled and still a little dazed.

The sword twists in another rolling motion, so does the pistol. He had not noticed Sparrow taking it, he notes with dismay.

"Lucky for you, Commodore, I don't need to be seen paradin' naked men across town. This looks like a shirt and breeches on the chair."

His hands are steady when he buttons the shirt and pulls on his stockings and breeches, the familiar task of dressing and the sharp edge of danger both serving to calm and ground him. Once finished, he straightens up and looks straight at the pirate, wishing for more light than the moon provides.

"Across town? Just what are you planning to do with me, Sparrow? Don't you realise there are guards in the street and in the harbour? Or do you simply wish to leave my body in a public place"

"You'll be needin' that body yet, Commodore" the apparition says, and the pistol dips towards the chair again. "And your body will need shoes."

Dressing to the pirate's satisfaction he goes through the possibilities. Impressment? Hardly likely. Murder? Evidently not immediately, although the night is young. Abduction? Well, obviously, but to what end? A sword is long enough to duck under, but there is also the pistol. By all accounts his fencing skills should be sufficient, if only there was a blade within reach. Going outside, that should give him more options, there may be people to hear him. And without the damned brocade coat and vest he should certainly be fast enough… the blade stroking his chest interrupts his train of thought.

"Dashing" Sparrow comments absently, then his cuff rustles again. "The sheet, take that sheet."

Bemused, he does so and understanding begins to dawn as Sparrow gestures towards the balcony doors.

"It will tear."

"Not if you twist it" Sparrow replies tranquilly, and demonstrates the motion, wrists twirling vaguely.

Out on the balcony he can see his nemesis clearly, down to the grimy hands and the frayed sash. "What is it you intend" he asks again, and receives such an enigmatic grin in return that his fists clench around the sheet, which unfortunately still does not make it Sparrow's neck.

"Loop it through the railing and hand me one end" he is instructed, and does so, wondering if he can get close enough to grab the pistol. Probably not.

When the rope née sheet is guided through the railing and each of them holds a knotted end, Sparrow gestures again. "Off you go, then."

This must be what madness is. Irrevocable, absolute madness. "We are twelve feet above the ground, man! Are you mad"

"No, Commodore, but I am, in point of fact, holding a sword. And a very nice pistol."

That he cannot argue with. With a shrug, he clenches one hand even more tightly around the sheet, and puts the other one on the balustrade. _Our Father which art in heaven-_

Gathering a deep breath he swings his legs over the railing.

_Hallowed be thy- _The air rushes at him, and the sheet snaps tight, pulling the air from his lungs and wrenching at his shoulder.

_-name, thy kingdom come-_ and he lets go.

He tries to roll as the ground hits him, but the blasted hibiscus gets him first, and he is covered in scratches already when he finally comes to a rest. His shoulder is on fire, his right ankle has twisted, and there is, quite incredibly, a sword pointing at him.

The bastard must have jumped the same moment he did, unless he can fly. James tries to breathe and to calm the staccato beat of his heart, and not to give in to the dozens of small and big aches his body is groaning under.

"The landing could use some work" the pirate says nonchalantly, and oh, how he wants to knock out those gleaming gold teeth. Instead he gets to his feet unsteadily, wincing as his ankle protests.

They walk through the garden and out of the gate, Sparrow's footsteps irregular behind him, the sword caressing the small of his back through the thin linen of his shirt. A deep scratch on his forearm is bleeding slowly, and he tries to keep the blood from staining the shirt. An entirely futile enterprise, of course, but it gives his thoughts a focussing point. The pistol is still cocked and pointed at his back, so running is not an option. He walks, cursing the dark and trying to keep the weight off his ankle, without much success.

About halfway down the hill, the sword becomes more insistent. "Turn right."

"There is a bush to the right" he points out calmly, determined not to go down without a fight.

"There is a path around it, just watch your step" comes the just as calm reply.

There is nothing for it. He forces his way through the prickly undergrowth, around the hill, away from the town.

**V. Row, row, row your boat**

He loses track of the time, feeling only his laboured breathing and the throbbing in his ankle. The moon is still high when the bushes part to reveal a beach, a miniature lagoon framed by steep black rock. The metal against his back does not disappear, so he walks on, towards the rocks just at the waves' reach.

He is not entirely surprised to see a tidy, small boat in the shadows, oars carefully laid out alongside.

"Go on then" Sparrow says behind him. "Into the water with her, and don't forget the oars."

He turns around then, for the first time during the surreal march. "Where do you mean to take me, Mister Sparrow"

"Captain, _Captain_ Sparrow." The sword jabs him in the back, a mild warning. "And not that far from here, mate, don't you worry." Is that supposed to be reassuring"Hope your rowing isn't too rusty, though."

He closes his eyes briefly. Rowing a small boat, in the pitch dark, over unknown waters, with an armed pirate captor beside him. Just. Bloody. Marvellous.

"I'd be the first to admit it's sweet, Commodore, but we'd best hurry, the tide's going out" Sparrow says.

He frowns, involved despite himself. "Sweet"

"That little expression of yours, the God give me strength one."

"I make a point of not invoking our Lord's name in vain" he says primly, the little voice in his mind screaming _Liar!_ notwithstanding.

The pirate just grins infuriatingly, then gestures towards the boat.

His shoulder and back protest angrily when he shoves the boat into the water, and more than once he loses a shoe to the wet sand, retrieving it with a muffled curse. Sparrow tosses the oars into the boat and walks to the water's edge, tripping over an unseen rock at the last moment and rocking the tiny vessel. "Oops"

James bites down on a sigh and a rather rude expression he picked up in Nassau a long time ago.

His rowing does prove quite rusty in the end, and the beach is still only a stone's throw away when his arms and shoulders are already aflame. Occasionally Sparrow mutters directions and he does his best to follow them, the fire in his muscles dimming his response. He could jump overboard, but it's dark and there's sharp rocks and even sharper sharks' teeth in these waters, and the pirate still has a cocked gun in his hand.

So he rows.

Off to his right he can see the lights of the town reflected on the water, but the tall cliffs have already swallowed most of them. The water splashes against the sides of the boat, the oars squeak in the oarlocks, and his arms hurt more with every stroke. The bloody pirate across from him is sprawled over half the boat, looking for all the world as if he was enjoying a cruise in the blue Caribbean sea. Which he is, come to think of it, is. Damn it all.

Finally, mercifully, Sparrow sits up, or rather adjusts his sprawling a small degree. "Careful now, there's rocks here."

A few more strokes and the bow does indeed scrape over sand and rocks. Sparrow jumps over one side, rocking the boat yet again and - much to James' surprise - extends a hand. "Here we are. Home sweet cliff."

Warily he grasps the proffered hand and lets the other pull him up, hissing at the ache that has now engulfed his entire upper body.

**VI. The Black Pearl**

They are on a small island, a bit of rock and sand, not much bigger than his house. There is black, endless water everywhere save to the east, where he can see the black mass and the occasional light of the land.

He sits down, then falls on his back, willing his arms to stop trembling. Sparrow is busy with the boat, dragging it out of the water, humming something under his breath. When he falls onto the sand next to James he smells of rum and, faintly, rotting fish.

"Sorry, mate" he says cheerfully, causing James' insides to clench in renewed rage. "You should really do this more often, y'know. You're out of practice."

A very small part of him that isn't screaming in pain agrees quietly. He speaks the first question to come to his mind in order to silence it. "Is there a purpose to this exercise, Mister Sparrow, or were you just keen to visit a remote rock in the middle of the night, abducting a naval officer to accompany you as your galley slave"

"Captain" the pirate corrects him in that same gallingly even tone. "_Captain_ Sparrow."

"Once again, I don't see your ship, _Captain_."

"Look again, _Commodore_" Sparrow grins and gets to his feet.

He sits up, wincing in pain, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Barely a few hundred yards away from their island is the ship, her masts clad in new sails, her hull blacker than any real ship's has a right to be, her not-quite-galleon form sailing tall and proud.

James falls back onto the sand with a thump and closes his eyes.

There are footsteps on the sand, and eventually the squeak of oars and heavy splashes, then indistinct speech carrying over the water.

"Here now" a gruff voice says not far away from him"You've really gone and brought him, Jack. Are you mad"

Yes, he thinks, that he most certainly is. But apparently there are also sane pirates sailing on the _Black Pearl_. How comforting.

"Is he dead" the same voice bellows, now only a step away.

"Just resting" Sparrow calls from the direction of the water. "Bring him to the boats, Josh."

Something knocks against his shoe. "Up you get, sir."

He opens his eyes to find a vaguely familiar face enclosed by bushy sideburns peering down at him. One of the man's hands is outstretched, the other holds a cutlass.

He considers provoking them into killing him here and now. Surely whatever Sparrow is planning will not only be more painful, but also more humiliating than a quick death.

Grimacing as his muscles protest he takes the old pirate's hand and pulls himself up. Somewhere in his exhausted mind a memory resurfaces. "Mister… Gibbs"

"Aye" the sailor mutters roughly, and looks away for a moment. "Go on" and once again he is being directed with a sharp weapon.

Wearily he walks down to the water. A dinghy is now keeping company with Sparrow's boat, two men busily tying one to the other. Sparrow himself is standing off to the side, swaying faintly, pistol and sword still at large.

"No need to row this time around, Commodore" he says cheerfully, and points to the dinghy with a wide flourish. "Make yourself comfortable."

He climbs unsteadily into the boat and sits down haphazardly, not really caring where as long as his legs don't have to carry him any more.

"You made him row all the way to the bloody island" the incredulous whisper almost makes him groan, but he also feels something of a grim satisfaction. Any time spent in Sparrow's company makes him start to doubt his sanity. It is comforting to know that it is still Sparrow who is out of kilter, and not the world at large.

The boats are out on the water surprisingly swiftly, or maybe it is the exhaustion that makes him misjudge the progress of time. Gibbs and two pirates whose faces he hasn't yet clearly seen are in the dinghy with him, Sparrow is being towed in the boat behind them.

Two oarsmen make for good speed, and the hull of the great black ship looms over them within the shortest time. A ladder is lowered, and he climbs up agonisingly slowly, his body shaking from pain and fatigue. When he is finally on deck, surrounded by a half-circle of near-invisible pirates who leer at him in various stages of astonishment, fear and hatred, he can barely bring himself to pay attention to the bloodthirsty mob. He must be a sight, he thinks grimly, as dirty and scruffy as they are, without a shred of dignity to his posture.

Sparrow alights on the deck beside him, distinguishable from the other pirates only by his mane and the gaudy movements. "Take him to my cabin, Josh" he says turning to help the last pirate climbing the ladder aboard.

James tries to pay attention to the way, but in the dark everything looks the same, and utterly alien. Were it not for the gentle, familiar rocking beneath his feet he could easily believe himself caught in a nightmare. Yet the sea, no matter how treacherous at times, can never truly disguise itself, and the motion serves to ground him in reality.

Eventually Gibbs ushers him into the cabin, large and surprisingly bare. There is a heavy table and chairs, some chests, shelves and candles, and a screen off to either side.

Left alone and hearing the click of the door lock he tries to rouse himself to investigate the space, to devise an escape plan, to move, to think. However, the closest chair looks entirely too tempting, and he sinks onto it and pillows his sore head on his crossed arms.

Even abducted, surrounded by ferocious criminals, uncertain of his fate and aching with every fibre of his body, the waves rock him into sleep.


	2. Part 2

**Title:** As if in storm lurked calm and peace 2?

**Author:** cjk1701

**Rating:** PG for this chapter

**Pairing:** Sparrington per-slash

**Disclaimer:** Disney owns the characters and pretty much everything else. More's the pity.

**A/N:** Inspired by the wonderful stories of firesignwriter, oneiriad, vivagloria and all those other great writers out there. When I grow up, I want to write like you guys.

I've taken insane liberties with geography and history in this story. Boy, have I taken liberties. But considering that Disney did the very same thing, I refuse to feel guilty. This is a fantasy universe, after all.

Part I

**VII. What words may come**

_He is lost in the whirlwind of the battle, the heady rush of the blood pumping through his body, his being is focused on the blade in his hand, and yet the horror threatens to overwhelm him. He, who has never looked away from an enemy's face, never shirked a battle, never sent his men ahead of him. _

_Although he does still flinch at explosions._

_Never has he felt this grey, paralysing fear before, but he has never faced anything but men of flesh and blood in battle. His own blood runs cold and pools in the pit of his stomach, the faces of his men around him masks of stark horror. _

_Skeletal hands covered in rotting flesh are reaching for him. He can smell decay as he flies through the familiar dance of fight and death. Yet there is waking, walking death all around him and the nightmare has become real. He thrusts, ducks under a cutlass, parries a machete, and suddenly sees Gillette's wide eyes and white face._

They cannot be killed! Merciful God, they cannot be killed!

_A hand clutches his shoulder._

He starts awake with a hoarse scream that turns into a yelp of pain as his stiff muscles protest harshly. His heart is threatening to burst from his chest, and he is shaking, willing the images to recede.

It takes him a moment to realise that there is, indeed, a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and scowls.

"Sparrow, why have you brought me here? What is the purpose of this farce"

The pirate's eyebrows fly up as he stills for a moment, then draws back and raises a limp hand. "Well, I'm glad you are finding comic value in this situation, I was afraid I would be the only one. Of course, not afraid as such, per se, but it occurred to me that you would find the situation not as amusing as, say, some other people would have. Do. Am. In fact…"

"Sparrow"

"Captain." Sparrow's hand illustrates the point, looking oddly like it is missing a teacher's cane. "_Captain_ Sparrow." Something shifts in the pirate's limber posture, and James feels a tingle of cold race up his spine.

"My apologies" he says curtly, at once all too aware of the vulnerability of his position.

Sparrow makes that little odd bow of his, hands clasped together. "Now" he beams, gold glittering in the candlelight"I have a question for ye, Commodore."

He leans back in the chair, face very carefully neutral, lips pursed. "Indeed"

The pirate hums assent and sits down across from him, his smaller shape immediately sprawling over the chair, making it appear as if his body has less bones than an average man's. Putting one elbow on the table, he props his chin on it, fingers toying idly with the braids in his beard.

He's being played with. That cheeky bastard actually has the gall to tease him. He glares at the infuriating man. "Well, are you going to enlighten me as to what the question might conceivably be, _Captain_? If this is to be a staring match, I assure you that I am quite able, and, indeed, quite likely, to fall asleep in this chair as I wait for you to come to your senses."

Sparrow smiles, the expression quirking his lips but not quite reaching the kohl-rimmed eyes. "Funny you should mention that." His quick fingers are still playing with his beard, tugging at the tiny beads in the black hair. "The question is thus: were you, as an officer and gentleman, to give your word to me, as a pirate and… well, a pirate, would you feel compelled to keep it"

He feels hot blood rush into his face. "Are you casting aspersions on my honour, _pirate_"

"Well" Sparrow says, and against all odds he seems focussed to the point of sitting still"not as such, no. What I am asking you, Commodore, is whether me being, shall we say, not quite a gentlemen of breeding and station, will influence your decision as to keeping your word."

The fury flooding him is too hot to express in words. "My word" he bites out with difficulty"is my word. Once given, it stands unless I am to be released from my promise. What does it matter if my word is given to a king, a pauper or a common criminal"

"Ah, yes" Sparrow says calmly, apparently not in the least affected by the insult. "So pirate or not, if you gave me your word you would stand by it"

"If I had my sword now" James growls"you would pay quite dearly for _your_ words. How I wish you were gentleman enough for me to challenge you where you stand"

"Sit. Where I sit. I'm not standing" the pirate corrects, then stands up. "Well, _now_ I am. Anyway. What I find really interesting is that you" and a dark, grimy finger is pointing at James' nose"value your word and subsequently your honour enough to want to demand - hah - satisfaction over an imagined slight, yet in the same breath feel no compunctions to insult me very own self. Why is that, I wonder"

"You abducted me under duress, almost killed me on the blasted balcony, made me row you to that rock in the dark, are now keeping me prisoner and threatening me with yet more violence! Is that not reason enough for me to feel incensed by your mere presence, never mind your wicked insinuations"

"Ah. But, and forgive me for saying that, Commodore- what is your name, by the by"

James frowns. "What"

"Your Christian name, man. Surely even you have one"

His fists clench. "What possible difference could it make"

He receives a flat, unreadable look. "Well. As I was saying, _Mister Norrington_, the vile insinuations started a long time ago. Namely when you first laid eyes on me, before you even knew who I was. Or what I was. How is that for honourable"

"You were tearing Miss Swann's gown off"

"Her corset. When she wasn't breathing. On account of having fallen into the _bloody ocean_. While you were standing right next to her." Sparrow's dark eyes narrow. "The point is, mate: you, as a _man of honour_, were about to have me shot before you even knew my name, just after I fished your ladylove out of the deep, blue sea. And then you ask why I would possibly, just possibly, doubt your intentions"

James opens his mouth, a heated reply straining from his lips, but suddenly feels the wind of self-righteousness taken from his sails. He sighs, abruptly fatigued almost beyond human endurance. "I apologise for my actions that day. You are right. I did not behave… honourably."

Sparrow chuckles, a dry, deep sound. "Methinks, my dear Commodore, you'd spend a lot less time cursing yourself for apologising to me if you were to curse _me_ a little less in the first place."

Pirate or not, that is a valid point. He says the one thing that comes to his exhausted mind. "James."

Sparrow raises his eyebrows. "Beg pardon"

"My name. It's James."

Sparrow is still for a frozen moment, then bows his head, smiling slightly, but somehow less sharply than he had been before. "I accept your apology... James."

Well, he should have seen that one coming. He closes his eyes. His shoulders have developed new aches, sharp and coiled.

Sparrow's voice, unexpectedly close, startles him. "About that word of yours."

"We have been merely discussing a hypothetical situation, as I recall" James says tiredly.

"Indeed, certainly, yes, so we were" Sparrow throws himself back into the chair. "Another hypothetical situation for ye, then. Suppose you were to give me your right honourable word, as an officer and a gentleman, that you would not try to escape from my _Pearl_, nor harm me or any of my men - and women - nor to disable my ship."

James stares, barely able to make sense of the situation. "Why would I do that"

"Because the cot in my sleeping cabin is a great deal more comfortable than the floor in the brig, James."

"Your cot."

"Aye" Sparrow tosses his head back and grimaces in exasperation. "Unless you actually enjoy bare floors and expatriate Navy rats."

James shakes his head, hoping to clear some of the grey nothingness that is intruding on his thoughts. "I don't…"

"Look" Sparrow says and leans forward, hands uncurling to illustrate. "Look. Do you, James Norrington, Commodore of the Jamaican fleet and scourge of pirates everywhere, give me your word that you will not try to escape, harm me, my ship or my crew, or do anything else that might endanger yourself or us, for the next, oh, twelve hours? If you do, _I_ shall give you _my_ word as a dishonest scallywag and a pirate, that you will not be mistreated- that you will be _treated_ as a guest, and not as a prisoner for the duration of those twelve hours."

The grey is encroaching into the corners of the room now, and Sparrow seems to be moving away while still sitting in the same place. "Why do you…"

"For now, because I need you alive, hale, and reasonably sane tomorrow. For a given value of sane. In fact…"

James speaks quickly, to stem the tide of words. "Yes. You have my word. Twelve hours. Not a minute longer." He will deal with his conscience after he has had some sleep. Lord, he can deal with anything after he has had some sleep.

"Excellent! Splendid" Sparrow jumps to his feet, and, once again, extends a hand.

Beyond one of the screens is a sleeping cabin, or at least a space filled with sparse furniture he does not have the strength to pay attention to, and a large cot.

A cot with pillows, white sheets, and a blanket.

Soft pillows.

He thinks he hears a voice, and somebody is tugging his left shoe off, but the pillow is so blessedly, sweetly soft and warm that he does not open his eyes again.

**VIII. Ceasefire**

His second awakening on board the _Black Pearl_ is marked by a notable absence of nightmares, histrionics, dramatic pirates or even self-recriminations. He owes it to the Crown to be in full possession of his faculties, he tells himself firmly, and if a twelve hours' truce with a pirate is essential for his health and sanity, so be it.

With the sunlight bursting into the cabin even through the all but opaque windows, it is bright enough for him to take in all details of his surroundings. Apart from the magnificently comfortable cot he is lying on there are cupboards in the same dark wood as the walls, a cannon with something that looks like a Persian rug thrown over it, a small pedestal desk topped by cabinets, and a dressing table with a miniature mirror on it.

In short, he is surprised to recognise, it is very much like his own cabin aboard the _Dauntless_, aside from the decadent opulence of the rug and the soft bedding.

Carefully he sits up, grimacing as spiky aches spread through his arms and back. He will make Sparrow pay for making him row that blasted boat, he swears darkly.

A second look around the cabin makes him pause, and he stands up to ascertain that his eyes are not deceiving him. Indeed, there really are washing utensils and a razor on the dressing table.

He frowns. Surely even the worst pirate would not leave him a sharp blade? But then, he supposes it matters little on a ship where all crewmen are armed to the teeth.

A dim memory from the previous night comes to him. Did Sparrow really imply there were women on board? He shakes his head at the irrelevancy of the issue. Male or female, pirates are still pirates.

Unless they are risking life and limb to save individuals they barely know for apparently naught but altruistic reasons.

Damn.

Shaking his head to dislodge unpleasant thoughts, he notices white linen piled up on the side of the desk. A clean shirt, sleeves a bit too short for him, but the fabric and needlework finer than any he has seen in his own closet. He sighs. How very thoughtful of them, to provide him with garments quite obviously stolen. And yet, if the choice is between principles and a tidy appearance, principles will have to take a short walk and come back when he is dressed.

He strips quickly and scrubs himself down, enjoying the hot water and soap against his skin; feeling faint annoyance at sleeping soundly through the intrusion of whoever brought the water.

Shaved and dressed in the fine shirt he looks critically into the small mirror. Without his wig, or even a waistcoat, he feels undressed, barbaric and uncivilised. His left stocking is torn and stained with tar and saltwater, as are his breeches. His short hair is damp and unkempt and looks very exposed.

Bloody Sparrow and his insane plans. It is almost worse than being entirely naked, this odd state or wearing only his undergarments.

Of course, there is no way around it. Straightening his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back he walks around the screen into the day cabin.

To his vague surprise - he expected the room to be full of gaudy pirate - it is empty, although there is an open inkpot and pens on the table, and a disorderly pile of good paper spread over an entire side of it.

He hesitates in front of the stateroom doors, then opens them with a resolute twist of his hand, squinting in the harsh sunlight.

The quarterdeck is all but deserted, with two pirates either scrubbing the deck or having a heated argument involving mops; it is hard to tell.

As he walks to the side, he pinpoints the vague feeling of wrongness that has been accompanying him since he woke: the _Pearl_ is not moving. An overdue glance up confirms that the sails are furled.

He only sees the beach when he is close enough to touch the gunwale. It appears to be another tiny island, barely enough room for a handful of palms and some seagull-infested cliffs. The _Pearl_ is anchored just outside a miniature lagoon so blue it seems painted onto the landscape. Brightly coloured shapes move in the palm tangle, but without his spyglass he cannot make out the particulars of what the pirates are doing.

A thud makes him whirl around and his hand flies to his belt, where Turner's sword is not. He covers up the lapse by straightening his back and pursing his lips.

Sparrow seems to have either literally fallen out of the sky to land on the deck behind him, or jumped from the rigging overhead. He is dressed in his usual assortment of mismatched and ragged apparel, but his long braids are sopping wet and the kohl around his eyes even more smudged than usual.

James can't stop his eyebrows and tone from rising incredulously. "You went _swimming_"

The pirate grins and pulls a fistful of hair behind his back, where rivulets of water run into the collar of his shirt. "And good morning to you, Commodore. Sleep well"

With a hot little flash of embarrassment he remembers that he slept on Sparrow's own cot, leaving the pirate to spend the night elsewhere, and most likely a great deal less comfortably. "Thank you for your hospitality, Captain. While the method of transportation and my reason for being here still cause me not inconsiderable consternation and distress, the accommodation itself was excellent."

Sparrow doesn't answer immediately, but takes hold of a rope instead, and lightly swings himself up to sprawl on the gunwale. James finds himself faintly annoyed at having to look up instead of down, and even more annoyed at the realisation that Sparrow is playing him like a fiddle. Almost automatically moving into parade rest, he contemplates the furled grey sail over his head.

Unexpectedly Sparrow chuckles. "You never asked about the time."

James doesn't look away from the sail. "I beg your pardon"

"We agreed on twelve hours, you will without a doubt remember. You haven't asked if they're over yet."

The sails are very obviously new, he can tell even without remembering the rag-like ones she had when sailing under Barbossa. He had wondered how she was sailing at all, then, whether the curse had affected the ship as much as the crew.

Sparrow's breathing briefly hitches in something like a silent chortle. "Oh, very well, Commodore. Commendable, really." He pauses, and James can hear the grin in his voice when he says"Just under two hours left."

He turns at last, and looks up at the pirate. "I gave you my word that I would not try to escape or otherwise give you reason to break your half of the agreement. And I also recall you saying that you needed me alive and sane today. For what purpose"

Sparrow brings one knee up and wraps an arm around it. "The French."

The now familiar feeling of the world careening when Sparrow is about assaults him afresh. "The French."

"Ghastly people." Sparrow lets go of the rigging momentarily to wave his hand in emphasis. "Loud women, hideous language. Food's too rich, too." He pauses, head tilting. "And there's the war, of course."

"The war has not escaped my notice, Mister Sparrow" James says dryly, and sighs"Captain Sparrow."

The man in question smiles briefly then slips down to the deck, giving him a disconcertingly thorough look. "Let's get you out of the sun, mate. You'll burn."

While doubtlessly true, the observation is irritatingly personal. Scowling, he follows Sparrow back to the stateroom, hands still cupped behind his back, wishing for at least a waistcoat to cover himself with.

Sparrow sweeps the pens and papers to one side and caps the inkpot, then pauses in mid-movement. "Tea" He turns around, raising his eyebrows. "Or do you prefer cocoa"

James frowns. "You have cocoa here"

"Not exceedingly hard to find in the West Indies, that" Sparrow says absently, rummaging around in a drawer, then pulls out a stack of maps. "But seeing as we've offended your fine English sensibilities enough, you can have some tea."

"Not all Englishmen drink tea" James says primly, then adds, surprising himself"my father does not care for it."

"Aye" Sparrow looks up from the drawer, eyes crinkled in a smile that looks somehow warmer than his rakish grins. "Proper European admirer of coffee, then"

"A distinguished admirer of brandy, for certain" he replies, and pushes the images he has thus evoked into the deepest corner of his mind. Sparrow has taken enough from him already, he won't have his dignity as well.

He is somewhere between gratified and surprised when Sparrow makes no comment, but instead walks back to the doors and converses with somebody outside.

The maps catch his attention and he unrolls the topmost one, admiring the cartographer's skill and talent. Unlike the stark and severe Navy charts, this one has a richly decorated border running alongside the edge of the parchment. It features tiny mermaids, conches and a number of sea monsters, each detail drawn with amazing realism. He is still running his fingertips along the elaborate embellishments when Sparrow returns and comes to stand next to him.

He can't help but comment. "These charts are exceptional."

Sparrow makes a low humming noise that he takes to be assent, and unrolls another map, using the inkpot to hold down one side, his be-ringed hand on the other. James notices absently that most of the previous night's grime has come off, and that the lace of the pirate's shirt cuffs is as clean and neat as his own would be.

He forces himself to concentrate on the ink and paint landscape on the table. It is a very detailed depiction of the north-eastern Venezuelan coast, as well as Trinidad and the smaller islands around it.

"Tobago" Sparrow says, and points to the island in question.

James nods. "So it is."

Sparrow's finger wanders north. "Grenada."

"Indeed."

North-east now. "Barbados."

"Absolutely."

Sparrow hums something off-key and points to a spot south of Barbados. "Business interest."

James is reasonably certain the place does not exist on official British naval charts. "Oh"

Sparrow frowns, bends low over the map, and scrapes a fingernail over the spot. It comes off.

James closes his eyes for a moment, and rubs his forehead.

Sparrow croons triumphantly, and points to another speck, a seemingly more permanent one. "Here 'tis."

"A… business interest" James says slowly. "I was unaware your interests ran to smuggling, Captain."

"They don't" Sparrow answers matter-of-factly. "No excitement in it." He frowns at the chart. "I have a rather strong interest in that island, on the other hand."

"Do you."

"Aye. Of course, there's the bloody French."

James' eyes wander south to Grenada and Trinidad. "Indeed. Right on your doorstep, as it were. I can see your problem."

Sparrow makes that odd humming noise again. "Have to keep south, and there's forts and ships at Trinidad. Grenada's even worse." He pauses, finger moving south to where James is looking. "Been around Trinidad a fair few times, o'course."

"I'm sure the French patrols were pleased."

A derisive snort. "Next to my _Pearl_, the French are all but dead in the water."

It's James' turn to snort. "She is fast, I grant you, but not that fast."

"Fast enough. In fact…"

There is a loud rap on the doors, and Sparrow pivots mid-word and swaggers over to let in an old sailor with a tea tray in his hands. A colourful parrot on the man's shoulder seems to be eyeing the sugar bowl.

"Thank ye, Mister Cotton" Sparrow says, and glares at the parrot. The bird spreads its wings and settles down, tilting its head to the side. Its owner grins silently, and walks out, closing the doors behind him.

As Sparrow pours, James considers the tea set. The pot and cups are fine Chinese porcelain, even if the milk jug and sugar bowl are bulky pottery. He resolutely does not wonder how the pirate came by the cup he is to drink from.

The tea is fine and strong, and the milk is surprisingly fresh. He sips it still scalding hot, watching Sparrow make room on the table for tea and charts alike.

The urgent sense of danger has receded, and he does not think only their temporary truce and easy conversation are to blame. Whatever Sparrow is planning, he thinks, is unlikely to involve James' demise. He might be intended to be used as a hostage, or simply leverage, but now that sleep and strong tea have cleared his head, he feels a great deal more in control of the situation. Whatever happens, in the end he will see Sparrow back behind bars.

The thought brings him up short. Behind bars to what end? He has killed enough men in his time, but a soldier's life being what it is; all of them were men he never knew. Is that Sparrow's intention, to ingratiate himself with James and thus ensure his survival?

Somehow, even having barely spoken to the man, he still doubts that explanation.

A good man, the Turner boy had insisted. He still cannot see how a man whose life consists of doing others harm can be good, but neither can he see the vital presence sipping tea next to him as a broken thing on the gallows.

Damnation. He has always thought himself fair and objective. Yet another thing Sparrow has robbed him of.

Sparrow walks around the table, somehow avoiding to drip on anything other than the floor, and sits down across from where James is standing, teacup placed squarely in front of him. "Take a seat, Commodore" he drawls. "This may take a while."

James sits down stiffly, back so straight it does not touch the back of the chair. His cup makes a sharp, light sound when he puts it down on the table.

"Where was I" Sparrow muses, stroking his lower lip with a dark finger. His eyes look unfocussed for a moment, then he leans forward abruptly, a ferocious gleam in his eyes. "Ah. Tobago."

James looks down on the map almost involuntarily. The small island is still there, shadowed by the bulk of Trinidad. "The French supposedly were not entirely successful in flushing your brethren out of the region" he says derisively, and for a moment wonders if his contempt is aimed at pirates or at the French.

Sparrow nods, sending droplets of water flying. "Like I said, Commodore. Business interest." He taps a stained fingernail against the map. "Tobago is barely defended, and with the war on they can't spare enough ships to guard it as they used to. The bulk of the fleet is around Grenada, I should think."

James remembers many similar discussions in Governor Swann's office. "Are you planning a private war now? I believe attacking the French single-handedly is a task beyond even the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Ah" the legend under consideration looks at James and smiles very slowly. "But I'm not going to do it single-handedly, am I? You, Commodore, are going to help."


End file.
